


a simple thing

by fallensherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love Confession, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallensherlock/pseuds/fallensherlock
Summary: Sherlock is tapping his fingers on his cup. "But there's something--some simple thing, really. I just want to talk with you about something."





	a simple thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hicsqueaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hicsqueaks/gifts).



It is late afternoon on a lazy Thursday in Baker Street 221b. The living room is covered in orange glow, last rays of sunshine get through the windows, lighting everything inside. John admires the view from behind the kitchen counter, keeping an eye on napping Rosie lying in her babysitter in the middle of the room. He's grown to love the ordinariness of this, throughout the years, having to see it now every day. It should be boring and domestic and everything that made him once anxious, yet it feels like something peaceful and ancient, something that was there forever, always waiting for him to come back. It's satisfying and he finds himself enjoying that more than anything these days. He can't quite imagine abandoning it now.

And there is Sherlock in all of this, making this perfect life possible. He can give him peace and quiet, or danger and rush of adrenaline, exactly when he needs it, and he always knows when. It's not that, though. He's the source of stability he's never appreciated, until recent. He is glad, really. He loves the life they live. He loves its simplicity.

Sherlock joins him at the other side of the table, stopping John's train of thought. He seems bothered, looking down at his cup of tea, though John can't think of any reason of his anxiety. They had such boring day. He is so easy to read now, John thinks.

"New case?" John asks in a mildly curious tone, too content with the view to turn away.

"No, not quite," Sherlock answers, his voice as nervous as John could hear him at only few, really bad situations. It takes John's full attention. Sherlock is tapping his fingers on his cup. "But there's something--some simple thing, really. I just want to talk with you about something."

John lets out a quiet, surprised oh, now truly invested. It's never happened before, he's quite sure--Sherlock wanting to talk about something. He looks at him expectingly. Rays of sunshine light his face, emphasising his cheekbones even more. His hair is lit in gold. He can see his bottom lip trembling, almost unnoticeably. "What is it, then?"

"I love you." It is barely a whisper, a soft and brief statement. It's sincere, after years of knowing his voice, John can tell that. One day he'd thought those words coming out of Sherlock's mouth would bring him pure relief and joy. It's different now, though; those words sting, like a blade that once, years ago, stabbed him straight in his heart and was never removed, until now. It left him with dull ache he'd learned to ignore almost completely. But now this wound that was once healed, yet never entirely, is bleeding again, causing him striking pain he's forgotten a long time ago.

He waited for them for so long he'd lost all hope of ever hearing them. But here they are, and they feel like a wasted opportunity.

"'There's something I've always meant to say, never have,' huh?" For a moment, he feels angry. His voice sounds too bitter though, and Sherlock doesn't deserve this. He can't bring himself to look at him, instead he continues staring absently at his hands. "Why now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock is struggling to find the right words, any words. Silence fills the whole room until it's too much to bear. John finally looks at him, his face pained. Sherlock, oh, god, looks miserable, it strikes him only now--his face pale, his hands shaking. He can't see his eyes but he guesses they are reddened; for fuck's sake, he looks like he's about to cry, if he's not already. He wants to kiss those eyelids, kiss away all the pain he has to bear. He supposes he can try now, but if it would bring him any comfort, he doubts it. Instead he places his hands on Sherlock's, squeezing them gently, caressing his soft skin with his thumbs. He is so sorry, yet he can't make himself say anything.

"I--I suppose I couldn't do this anymore. John, I'm sorry." He tries to get away from him, run as far as possible from all this, but John stops him, holding his hands firmly. He sounds wretched and John can't let him blame himself, yet he feels like he can do nothing. He wants to make everything right, take all of his pain for himself. He caused enough of this, after all.

"It's okay," he tries to comfort both Sherlock and himself, not sounding too convinced. "It's okay, Sherlock," he repeats, now more self-assured. Sherlock looks up at him, confused. John gives him a faint smile, probably looking awfully fake. Sherlock doesn't care, though, and smiles back, just barely. John's smile is more sincere this time, expression not too pained. He needs to do it for him.

He can clearly see Sherlock's tears on his cheeks now. He wipes them off with his thumb, caresses his curls, then brushes them off his forehead. "Was there ever a chance?" Sherlock asks, his voice barely heard. John's look answers for him. "When was it too late, then?"

"Oh, Sherlock," he starts, laughing without shade of amusement, looking away. "I'd always thought it was too late. It never was, apparently."

"Is it bad?" Sherlock asks, still uncertain, though he should already know the answer.

"Of course not. You know what it is," he says and gets up, walks around the table, stops just beside sitting Sherlock. "Come here."

John takes his hand again. He touches his hair tenderly, like he could break him any moment. Sherlock's wary, still afraid, but leans into the touch. He lets his head rest on John's chest, closes his eyes. "Simple as that?"

"Simple as that," John assures him. It could've been simple as that from the beginning, but they would make it complicated. He made everything difficult, he always has. He shouldn't have. But it really doesn't have to be too late, he realises. It doesn't have to be a wasted opportunity, not anymore. In fact, it might be just perfect.

John needs to look at his perfect face, he lifts his chin. It's all pain he's hidden for years, coming out only now. His beautiful as ever icy blue eyes stare back at him, and they're full of hope and relief. "Why not before? Why hide it for the whole time?" John asks.

"I thought you'd leave."

He should've known before. But he let him down instead, blaming him for every wrong that happened to him.

"I'm never going to leave you, Sherlock. Not again," he promises. He never wants to let go of his face ever again. He kisses his forehead gently. "I'm sorry I did," he whispers, barely moving back, Tears show up on Sherlock's cheeks. He wipes them off again and this time he kisses his eyelid tenderly. "I love you, too, you know?" he whispers, linking their foreheads. He kisses his right eyelid now, "I love you," once again. Then his head, his forehead, his nose and cheeks and chin. I love you, I love you, I love you, he repeats every time, his own vow he needs to keep. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, afraid that if he opens them, it'll all go away. John wants to convince him that it's all real, but he doesn't know himself. He finally connects their lips and it's tender and sloppy and unsure but still as beautiful and it's everything he's ever dreamed of. Sherlock tastes of tea and salt from all his tears and John can feel him pulling on his shirt. His lips are so soft and John's never going to let them go.

So it's Sherlock who breaks their kiss. It might've been eternity as far as John can tell, but it's certainly been too short, after all the time they've been kept apart.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, softly. Their foreheads are linked. Both of them can't think of anything to say, that hasn't been already clarified. "You think we could stay, like this?"

"Forever," John answers, genuinely. He smiles through tears and he didn't even realise he was crying. Sherlock smiles back. He thinks that yes, they can actually stay like this, forever.


End file.
